Background: A few weeks prior to this going to print, Kim Kardashian announced her divorce after 70 whatever days. ..

You know those days when you wake up, and your hair already looks good, you find twenty dollars in your jeans pocket; you’ve lost three kilos overnight, and then you tongue-pash Leo DiCaprio while Ryan Reynolds waits his turn before proposing marriage? Well to me, waking up on Christmas morning is more magical than that. Except for the Ryan/Leo bit, because that’s not magic when you’re a blonde model-turned-actress. That’s a couple of months ago.

I don’t understand people who hate Christmas. What’s not to love about a holiday that includes over-indulging in eating, drinking and sleeping? Yes I just filled my bowl for the third time with Brandy custard trifle, and then chased it with a giant bucket of fudge and 4 glasses of sparkling something-or-other. Yes there’s a chance I’ll be sick later but tomorrow’s a holiday. ANOTHER ONE!

And without sounding too materialistic; don’t forget presents. Because Christmas without presents is like Kate Moss without makeup. Or Shane Warne without Liz.

The magic of Christmas doesn’t end there. Here’s my list of Christmassy magic, all starting with S because S is the symbol for $ and Christmas isn’t cheap. Also, like everyone I recently pondered the stupidity that is Kim Kardashian, and thought about Kristmas at their house. They’ll have Kris Kringle, and eat kookies and kandy. And they’ll give each other their own kardashian kollection krap.

Sparkle: I love that Christmas is so shiny. The streets, the shops, and also when I’m outside in 99% humidity, my face! Everywhere you turn there’s sparkle and shine. Bells ringing and trees blinging. But please! If I must listen to Jingle Bells, I’ll listen to the Frank Sinatra version. Not the Earrings-Hanging-Off-Your-Ears version.

Santa: I hope someone is paying Santa the big bucks, particularly given the awkward and potentially litigious practice of having children sit on his lap to ask for presents. Santa is the master magician. The words, “I’ll tell Santa” can strike fear into even the baddest little brat. And the look on kid’s faces on Christmas morning is beyond magic. If you could harness the excitement from every 3-6 year old after Santa’s visit, the world’s energy crisis would be over.

Come to think of it, Coke should pay him. They invented him!

Seafood: No explanation required. Unless you’re one of those freaks that doesn’t eat seafood in which case you don’t deserve Christmas!

Spreading cheer: I LOVE giving presents. Openly. Anonymously. Shopping for them. Wrapping them. All of it. For some reason, it makes me feel like I’M a magician. Like I’m George Clooney’s manhood bringing outcries of pleasure to every exploding star in every galaxy.

Sugar: Everyone has their own ‘dessert’ tradition, and I think that’s what makes Christmas so amazing. Any occasion that makes us and supermarkets focus so much attention on chocolate and custard and pie and fudge and cookies and pudding and ice-cream and lollies has GOT to be magic. Although, as made aware to me by authors of the awesome blog: Spend Less Nourish More; Forrero Rochers lost their magic in 2003. Enough with the merchandising like it’s ‘special.’ Stick it on the shelf with Kit Kats. Ta.

Siesta: This is mandatory on Christmas day because of two words: Food coma.

And now for something equally magical but quite confusing….

Singing: Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE singing. Especially when I know the harmony and can sing like I’m one third of Destiny’s Child. Frankly? I’m surprised my career as an International Popstar is taking so long. Christmas Carols reserve a special place in my voice box. Singing them is what I call Christmas Cheer. But when you stop and consider the words – well sometimes it’s confusing. And non-carolly type Christmas songs are WORSE!

So this first: Apparently (read it on internet so must be true), in the times of Yore or Good King Wenceslas when the words to a song were considered in bad taste (ie anything by L’il Kim) rather than sing tawdry verse in question, singers would replace dirty verse with: ‘fa la la la la’. Which makes me wonder about Deck The Halls. Because ‘Dawn we now our gay apparel??’ Nope. Don’t want to know.

Meanwhile, some other words / phrases that confuse me: Feast of Steven? Not familiar with it, although it sounds wonderful. Manger? Only ever heard the word in 2 songs. Ever. Actually, the alternative would be ‘Away in a food trough.’ It makes me think that the birth of Jesus has been highly romanticised and the nitty gritty details of that first Christmas night have been kept a secret. Who cut the umbilical cord? Did they save the placenta? And my biggest question of all…. SILENT NIGHT? I mean this was pre-epidural times. And I can say with certainty they were not Scientologists. Whoever wrote Silent Night has never been in labour.

From the book ‘The Nativity’ illustrated by Julie Vivas. This is probably how Mary actually looked: Exhausted and like she’s still 4 months pregnant.

Another completely random song, “Do you hear what I hear.” In this song the wind is talking to a baby sheep. Maybe the sheep was Dinging and Donging Merrily on High.

Finally, I can’t fail to mention quite possibly the worst song ever written by man. And that’s saying a lot because most people reserve that title for Achy Breaky Heart. But Jingle Bell Rock can go and die in a chestnut-roasting fire. Any song that asks me to “mix and a-mingle to a jinglin’ beat” ceases to deserve a place in my Yuletide vernacular.

Jingle Bell Rock from the movie Mean Girls. I hope it goes without saying that I am equally uncomfortable with Sexy teenage dancers.

So anyway, to anyone that maintains they hate this time of year: Stop sulking. Submit to the magic and savour the season.

This appeared in the January (this year) issue of DarwinLife Magazine, however having just noticed that Darwin had their hottest day in 36 years, I remembered what it was like and felt a little bit pathetic for complaining about Perth’s latest little spurt of mini-tropical-cyclone-style-humidity. It was nothing in comparison.

Darwin’s humidity is worse than any I’ve experienced in anyother tropical location, and I’ve been to a few. Essentially, don’t come back from Thailand or the Maldives or India or even Bali bitching about the humidity until you’ve spent 5 days in Darwin in the middle of the ‘build-up’or wet season without airconditioning.

And here is the article…

Of all human qualities my favourite has always been absorbent. But last month my air-conditioner broke and I discovered there’s no such thing. I spent 5 days without cold air. Do you know what that’s like? To experience that fear, then relief, then sadness when you realise the red-faced, slimy, corpse walking around your house is actually your reflection?

I could have bathed a baby in my cleavage sweat. I spent the days waiting for new air-con in a haze of discomfort; the humidity molesting my skin. By day 4 my thunderpants had worn thin. I felt angry. Confused. Alone. I pondered evaporation for a little bit too long and scared myself. I sat for HOURS, insufficiently refreshing drink in hand, wondering why laundry baskets have holes, how hammerhead sharks put mascara on and whether pandas get upset about their tattoos not showing, until I couldn’t move and had to cry.

I’m reasonably certain I’d gone ‘troppo.’ It confirmed my suspicion that the wet season was upon me and that humans were never supposed to inhabit Darwin. Because no matter how many wet seasons I endure, it never gets easier. Anyway, in case you’re new to Darwin, or visiting, or just feeling slightly deranged like me, here’s a wet season checklist.

Appearance: Some girls glisten in humidity. I am not that girl. There’s nothing beautiful about me when I’m hot and wet. I leave home looking delightfully fresh, but return looking like “Maybe she’s born with a melting face, or maybe it’s a coagulating river of Maybelline.” My hair is what happens when you throw Benji the dog into a lake. I look like a Pro Hart painting, but I’m not alone. I’ve seen you. And like me, you sometimes smell like a BBQ truck. Also, crotch/boob sweat is a THING right?

Melting much?

Power Bill: Running air-con isn’t cheap. Have you received December’s power bill yet? If it wasn’t that high, it’s because you caught a plane to somewhere else for half the month so shut up.

Wet Season Media: You live in Darwin. Home of crocodiles, cyclones and UFOs. NONE of them consider you or your nice stuff. (Friendly aliens pending further evidence by local newspaper.) They shouldn’t have to advertise that. Surely you heard of Cyclone Tracey! No relation to me FYI. If you’re not prepared for the ‘wet’ you should get fined for being stupid. And the ad warning me not to play in pipes and drains? Am I missing out on something on something here?

Then you have the headlines. Yep, NT News and their ‘3 c’s’ formula. Cyclones, Crocs and Conspiracy. FACT: Biggest selling paper of all time had a girl in a bikini with the headline “I THOUGHT I SAW A CROC.” I thought I saw Vladimir Putin once at my local shops but that never made the papers!!

Outings: Last January I went to Darwin’s Hottest 7’s Rugby. All the teams were wearing the same MUD-coloured jersey. Every player’s face was splattered with, what looked like poo. Despite that it was awesome, but my point is: Outdoors and wet season don’t mix. Drive through town on a Sunday and you’ll notice one horse and some ghosts because everyone’s catching up INSIDE, in the sweet cold air. Except the people who’ve ‘gone troppo.’ They’re outside collecting other people’s garbage for fun, transporting their pigeons by foot, or sitting outside wondering what snakes do when they get itchy.

You know what? There are other signs it’s The Wet, but I just got distracted imagining what a cow’s bra would look like, and now I can’t breathe. I’m fairly certain this is how wars start. Wet? You bet!

I’m supposed to be on a diet at the moment, so I’ve been eating mostly steamed confusion and rage.

I’ve been hungry. Which is good when you’re playing the hunger games. Except – so hungry I just ate a whole box of Jatz crackers. Not quite as bad as a whole bag of lollies or a whole block of chocolate; a feat that I have accomplished before, but still gluttonish all the same. My Jatz moment was proof that I have not yet mastered the game of going hungry.

I’m just not at one with that starving feeling. Especially when it’s self imposed. My stomach tells my brain, “Pfft! Whatevs, you’re the boss, you’ve been awesome all day – just eat it.” And then my brain goes “Ooookkaaay!” And then I go into a carb-induced high and forget to stop eating.

And now this! Jatz guilt. Why do we do this to ourselves? Because Summer is coming and everyone knows what that means. BUSHFIRE SEASON, and also bikini season. THEY ARE BOTH MURDEROUS!

And if you want to avoid DYING OF REMORSE in the swimsuit fitting rooms because you don’t look like this:

Because when I sit like this, twisting my ribs sideways… It is a sight to behold!

…then you’ll have to DIE every time you feel like a piece of chocolate chunk cheesecake. Or a salted caramel macaroon. Or wedge of gorgonzola dolce with spiced pear paste. Or chocolate chip cookie dough cheesecake bars. And WHEN DID PEOPLE USE SO MANY ADJECTIVES FOR FOOD.

And so we start the hunger games. There are no set rules. We make our own rules according to our own previous successes or failures at losing weight. Some play by skipping breakfast or lunch. Some eat all meals but tiny bird-like portions. Some replace meals. Some skip carbs. Some refrain from sugars. Others from meat and dairy. Some sadly, forget it’s a game and do get very sick. **

Think I’m being ridiculous? Irresponsible even – for suggesting that I won’t enjoy Summer unless I’m a socially acceptable size 8-10? I’m not. This is the world we live in and the generation in which we live. We – the women who are subjected to the judgement of all who pass us by when our cottage cheese knees are showing.

Like it or not, our generation are the dieters, the binge eaters, and the ‘must always watch what we’re putting in’ generation. Blame it on magazines, the media, the fluctuations and constant body makeovers of the Kardashian sisters, or just Victoria Beckham. Either way, we’ve all been grabbing our stomachs to see how much flesh we can get a hold of since we were teenagers, and at that point we vow to lose those extra kilos “in time for Summer.” We start playing the hunger games.

It’s a game I started playing a week ago, and today I betrayed myself…. seduced by a salty cracker. And then, the entire box of salty crackers. I feel so dirty. I’m such a snack-food slapper.

If you have never played the hunger games, lucky you! You probably have testicles. Or – you’re on the verge of womanhood and this is a new and exciting game you’ve been dying to play since you were 11. So, like I said – you make the rules – but here are some suggestions that will help you WIN.

1. Check your measurements: We’re the measured sex, measured by waistlines and scales and flat stomachs, and by how many meals we have to skip to be a size 6-8. We’re judged by our ability to go hungry, and then celebrated in large measures. If you don’t measure up – keep on measuring.

3. Supplements: These help to suppress appetite and prevent actual eating. Choose from pills, shakes, or powders. These sometimes have a double effect, because according to advertising, if we have success with these products and lose centimetres, we’ll never lower our eyebrows again.

4. Count: If you’re good at math, you will excel at the hunger games. Otherwise there’s an App you can download that does it for you. (When is Apple changing its name to Bacon? ‘Oh no, I just dropped my Bacon iPhone. It’s totally fried now.’)

The app can tell you: There are 100 calories in a piece of bread. You burn 100 calories running 1 kilometer. ONE! For fun, you can work that out as a decimal. Because losing weight is SIMPLE! It’s just MATHS.

Counting will also help you with portion sizes. Today you may enjoy 3 litres of water, 250gm of cooked brown rice, 2 cups of cooked spinach, 5-7 almonds, 1 nanogram of camembert and I piece of paper you drew a chocolate fudge brownie ice-cream sundae on.

5. Exercise: A seasoned player will tell you that exercise helps you win The Hunger Games. It burns centimeters and melts fat. Running is apparently superior because fresh air? Once when I lived in Melbourne I ran a 15 km ‘mini’ marathon. The morning after, I woke up and my body filed for divorce.

You should probably know however, the alternative to fresh air is sweaty camel toe and techno pop.

6. Food: If you absolutely MUST eat, here are the guidelines. Do you know what quinoa is? Take a good look at it because you and that quinoa are going to really get to know each other. Boil some quinoa, add lemon zest because butter and salt are the devil. You may wish to add some raw, tasteless greens and other bland tasting barley-lentil nightmares.

Do not assume a vegetable is safe. I once ordered something called, “Winter vegetables roasted in duck fat.” Pumpkin never tasted so sublime. Food to avoid? Anything that makes your panties drop. Say goodbye to the euphoria of prawns in garlic butter arriving at the table sizzling hot. Deprivation is the key. Order a hot water and lemon you big fattie!

7. Pretend to be Foreign: Asians eat rice from two little wooden sticks and fish for themselves. Italians have 16 espressos all day before they eat one bowl of pasta. The French smoke 38 cigarettes, drink champagne and then eat a mouthful of baguette. Indians walk everywhere and eat curry, or as I like to call it – laxatives. In South America they eat well, but when you spend that mucht time jiggling your booty in a sequined g-string, you burn it off. These are ridiculous stereotypes but we eat like lunatics and drink liquid carbs.

8. Don’t listen to celebrities or Jenny Craig. This one is important because both celebrities and Jenny Craig tell lies. Lies such as: “Oh I just eat what I want… I have good genetics, I eat in moderation but have a sweet tooth, I love my curves..” And this one, “Before Jenny, I never thought I’d eat cheesecakes again.” Jenny Craig is the dark lord of diets. She is an insane, mystical being convincing us that cheesecake is ok. In fact, anyone that goes on TV or in magazines sprucing their before and after techniques should be made to show us thier lipo scars.

Now, if you were paying attention, you’ll notice in my list of guidelines, there was no number 2. That’s because when you starve yourself – number 2’s are hard to come by. Please keep your constipated face at home.

That’s about it. Good luck. Let the games begin. May the forks NOT be with you.

IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: The Hunger Games is prohibited for players that have just been dumped. To those of you with a broken heart…. Ladies – this is your time to shine. To hell with calories. You better have some of that new Philadelphia Cadbury’s chocolate frosting on hand in your fridge for this kind of occasion. You’re entitled to down whatever your sad little heart desires because you’re going to wear tracky-dacks and cry your mascara off anyway. Eat on darl’.

Interestingly, statistics show in a survey I just made up, that those playing The Hunger Games are more miserable than those who just got dumped.

** This blog is supposed to be silly, hence the idea that going without food is a game, not a way of life! I would NEVER endorse starving oneself – and would urge anyone reading this with an eating disorder to seek help and stop wasting your time and emotions on food. Being a particular size does not make you happy. Sharing happiness makes you happy and I can tell you now, starving yourself is only making people around you severely worried and unhappy. So chin up – go buy yourself a Happy Meal.

You’re weird. You know that, right? Like – you make most people cringe so hard their skull falls into their rib cage.

I could end my letter right there because I really just wanted to join the chorus of those calling you a total nutter so Hollywood will sit up, listen and realise we don’t like seeing you on or off the screen. But there’s a part of me that wants to reach out to you Tom. It’s mostly pity. Sad pathetic pity. The kind you have for someone who just got dumped – 4 days before a monumental birthday.

So anyway today news broke that your divorce to Katie Homes was settled. You’re back on the market! That was fast! But listen… before you go looking for the next Mrs Cruise – I need to tell you some other stuff, and in order to appeal to your ginormous ego, I’ve decided to write this letter in a way you’ll feel comfortable reading.. There are 8 facts. Just like there are 8 ‘Dynamics’ of Scientology.

Please consider this a community service and also somewhat of an intervention, where an unknown middle-aged scrag with a keyboard gives you said facts; then offers you some highly unsolicited advice which I strongly suggest you take if you don’t want to lose everything but your rank in the church.

(Disclaimer: for the purpose of this letter, putting the word “FACT” in front of a statement is the same as putting George Michael in bed with a girl in the Careless Whisper film clip)

FACT 1:

You turned 50 last week so Happy Birthday I guess. Anyway, acting roles for men in their 50’s and beyond are usually drama or comedy roles – something you’ve proven to be average at. Roles that George Clooney, Robert De Niro, Denzel Washington, Tom Hanks, Robin Williams, Anthony Hopkins, Dustin Hoffman, Jack Nicholson, Sean Penn and Colin Firth pretty much have in the bag. They’re all Oscar winners by the way Tom. A recognition that has eluded you throughout your 30 year career, despite your box office success in the action genre.

Don’t get me wrong. You’re not totally dried up. Any parts calling for a creepy, arrogant jerk are yours. Or Jim Carey’s. Also – now that you’re 50, you’re a lot less likely to snag a 26 year old. The Desperate For Popularity Boost Actresses are now flocking to Johnny Depp.

MY ADVICE: Quit acting, change careers. Become an agent or something. Change your name to Jerry and remember the good old days when you used to get nominated.

FACT 2:

Everyone is calling you Mission Impossible. Because get it? That’s a movie series you’ve been in. And now they’re making it an omen for your relationships. I notice you got paid 70 million back in 1996 to play the role of Ethan Hunt. Impressive. You’re currently filming a movie called Oblivion… Right? OBLIVION! Is this an omen for your career? They’re paying you a meagre 5 mill Tom. What happened? Even Vanilla Skye; possibly the worst film ever made for Hollywood paid you 20 million. Has it occurred to you and your people that you are no longer bankable, a fact that has nothing to do with your age and everything to do with your freaky psychotic ramblings?

MY ADVICE: SHUT UP!

FACT3:

Apparently you’re fairly high up in terms of rank within the Scientology religion. That’s fine. I don’t know where John Travolta or Will Smith sit within the ranks, but why are they seemingly more balanced than you? Given this, I find it irresponsible to blame your religious beliefs for your weirdness. It’s your OBSESSION with your beliefs, combined with your urge to CONTROL all those around you to partake in the tutti fruit that is scientology. Obsessions are ok I guess… John Travolta is obsessed with planes. Will Smith is obsessed with making his children more famous than him. I’m obsessed with nice handbags and writing letters to people who will never read them. Whatever. The point is Tom… your obsessions are made up words. Xenu? Weird mate.

MY ADVICE: Get a hobby that doesn’t include discussing time travel, aliens that exist in human bodies and ANYTHING that blows your mind.

FACT 4 :

In the last week, the media have pointed out something freakier than your front teeth before you had major dental reconstruction. And that is this: ALL YOUR WIVES GOT DIVORCED AT AGE 33. Well known celebrity examiner Perez Hilton delved into some numerology which Scientology is apparently in to. Whatever! Something about the flight of the phoenix and being free. The point is, regardless of who is filing for divorce, women who marry you realise at age 33 that they’re miserable and want a successful career. And BOY do they succeed. Cher – Oscar winner. Nicole Kidman – Oscar winner. Penelope Cruz – Oscar winner. Mimi Rogers won nothing from the academy because she won the Worst Decision Ever Award for introducing Scientology to their future leader.

What you should know is that even if you get married again, I doubt this kooky phenomenon will happen again because of Fact 1. You’re too high maintenance now. Your stocks have plummeted and the only person young and silly enough to recreate the phenomenon is Lindsay Lohan.

MY ADVICE: Find someone older than you. I think Jodie Foster is available. You guys have LOADS in common.

FACT 5:

Some people are saying you’re the next star to be cursed after filming Rock of Ages. Ie. Katie Holmes filing for divorce with you, Russel Brandt split with Katy Perry, Mary J Blige’s charity went broke, Alec Baldwin got a stalker…. I truly believe this film IS cursed. They filmed you writhing around on stage with no shirt on. OF COURSE it’s cursed.

Dawson’s Creek: The Reunion movie would be filming now if you didn’t forbid Katie from taking part. For this alone, millions are mad at you.

MY ADVICE: You need to personally fund all production fees associated with this project, and speak to whoever you have to ensure this gets off the ground. Will Joey run back to Dawson’s tender dorky arms, or will she remain helplessly in love under Pacey’s charming spell? These are questions we want answered Tom. SOON.

FACT 7:

Secrets! I think you have a few. Like why’d you divorce Nicole? Did she cheat? Did you? What’s in the pre-nup with you and Katie? What don’t you want us to know that might come out if you fought for custody? Why has this divorce been over so quickly? Why did she even divorce you? Was she afraid? IS it true you scared the hell out of Penelope? How come Katie gets primary custody of YOUR child? You ARE Tom Cruise!!

Honestly Tom! You’ll happily tell a journo to put his manners back in or discuss KSW, LRH, orgs and fighting the good fight…….but you won’t tell us the name of your boyfriend.

MY ADVICE: Nobody cares Tom. Open the closet door already.

FACT 8:

I feel it’s important to tell you something that is IN FACT a fact. You used to be hot. Like even now you’re not THAT ugly. But creepy and hot are non-cohesive traits. I remember going to the movie cinema as a 13 year old girl with my friend, and lining up for what seemed like 45 minutes because it actually was 45 minutes – to watch Top Gun. My friend Megan was 14 and we were there for one reason. YOU!!

Not Val Kilmer. Not the aeroplanes. Not even all those men in uniform. It was all for you. I remember watching you (Maverick) leaning over the sink in your Y-fronts and clenching your jaw tightly after Goose died, anguished over his death and the parallels to the premature death of your own father. It was a special moment. Not just in the movie’s story line, but also in MY story line. Seeing your jaw ripple? Something happened. I knew I was becoming a woman.

In a thousand years’ time, when they’re looking back at the remnants of our civilization, they’re going to say, “Wow their beer ads were awesome.” Maybe they won’t even have beer ads by then, in which case I’d like future generations to know that the ads were also very misleading. Drinking beer does not bring on a plague of reindeer after dark. Furthermore, my tongue has never come out of my mouth to search out beer, and drinking beer DID NOT help me do the entire dance routine from the movie Flashdance.

I did that all on my own.

In fact, there are many more things that future generations should probably know. Here are just a few…

CELEBRITIES: Currently our pop stars are trying to shock us. It’s silly really –like rocking up to an awards night in a side of beef to make… a STATEMENT!! Waste of a good BBQ if you ask me. Hopefully your pop stars are no longer attempting to shock. If they are – holy shinoodle what are they DOING? Also, many celebrity ‘actors’ should never have made movies. If you are into classics, I would like to apologise now for Tom Cruise. He used to “act” before he got famous for facilitating the co-habitation of aliens and earthlings on Zenu. Also, sorry about Angelina Jolie. Hopefully she stopped making movies when the world realised staring at someone with your lips slightly parted while holding a rifle is not acting, but like watching a foetus attempt to change a tyre.

Speaking of movies…

REMAKES. Just don’t. I can assure you that a big breakfast without bacon is upsetting. Footloose without Bacon is a travesty. I don’t know how many versions there are of Batman by now but trust me, that suit is on some kind of human growth hormone. Speaking of which, I also hope they stopped making The Hulk. Hopefully they have not remade anything that starred Frank Sinatra or Gene Kelly and if they did? I am deeply offended and perplexed for mankind. The best James Bond was Roger Moore, NOT Zach Efron. And if they’re still making Sex and the City movies, I apologise. Those women used to be in their 30’s when it was slightly more appropriate to discuss your vagina.

CONSERVATION. I’m pretty sure that through the wonders of evolution, Chocolate trees and Cheese trees grow wildly. I hope you’re respecting this amazing wonder of nature and not being all greedy and picking the cheese before it is mature, because there’s a word for you people – Cheddarphiles! Please be considerate and go easy on the trees. I’m sure you learnt in history class at school about the fish that used to live in the ocean.

MONEY. Don’t let money rule your life. Live each day. Don’t sit around being like ‘Oh man this day sucks because my iWatch7 broke and my High-speed 4D Wifi Smell-O-Vision is going too slowly!!’ They’re just ‘things’ that can’t hug you back. Unless there’s an app for that now…. Don’t get mad because you don’t have those expensive shoes that shoot fire and come with inbuilt massage pads that I’m counting on scientists to invent for us. Don’t want too much more than you have. Google Donald Trump; He lived big but died from bacteria that entered his brain shortly after a hair transplant.

LOVE. I don’t care if the divorce rate is 97% and the only living proof of romance is Gary Marshall movies starring Anne Hathaway. Love is worth having. Love can change your life and make you do things you never imagined. Love will keep you alive and warm the cockles. I’m not sure what cockles are but I think I’d prefer mine warm. I hope you still get butterflies in your stomach when some idiot half-grins at you. I hope they still write love songs and that not all ‘slow jams’ are about getting it on. I hope you’ve experienced yearning and that there’s still heartbreak, because if you’ve never had a broken heart – how do you even know you’re alive? I hope that romance doesn’t involve only texting and vampire novels, and while we’re on the subject of romance novels; I hope Mills and Boon are still printing the classics. Because this. Fries. My. Burger.

BE SMART. I hope you haven’t become full of yourselves, and you’re educated and live in a world where there are equal rights and positive role models. I hope you’ve elected good politicians and cured diseases. I hope that the world is better prepared for natural disasters and that a packet of cigarettes costs $59 but petrol is down to $1. I hope for Julia Gillard’s sake that carbon was proven to be directly responsible for global warming, and that the globe is, in fact warmer now, because I’ve never heard anyone say, “I just love being nice and cold.” I hope that publishing propaganda on the ‘harm done’ by Vaccinations and Immunisation is illegal. I hope the sitcom, Two and a Half Men is OVER. But mostly, I hope you are all doing well at mathematics. Because there’s a good chance you’re thinking… ‘Pfft. When will I ever need this in real life?’ but then… Lara Bingle and Kim Kardashian.

(An extended remix verison of Cyclone Cindy as seen in October 2011 issue of DarwinLife Magazine)

I used to sometimes wear red leather pants. I don’t know who deserves an apology more – cows or people… But honestly, if I had a dollar for every time I started my evening by putting on some leather pants and stilettos, moonwalked on a podium, snorted pepper, texted an ex – then made out with someone I totally should not have, and finished it off by eating something that essentially led me to investigate the floor of a room that had a toilet in it, I’d have three dollars and fifty cents worth of regret.

I wish I was one of those, “Sure I’ve done some stupid things but I put it down to experience…. Regrets? No, never!” kind of people. Because as Jennifer Aniston once said, “There are no regrets in life, just lessons.” Mind you, Jennifer Aniston probably also once said, “Hey Brad… put down the weed and come and read that script you got sent. This Mr & Mrs Smith screenplay is fantastic. You should totally do it.”

And look how that turned out.

We’ve all done things we regret. I’ve certainly done some stupid things and… DOINK! Forget experience and learning curves ok? I am NOT a better person for the silly things I’ve done that I regret. And neither is Charlie Sheen. Or the Australian Labour Party. Here’s some more examples of regrets I have that DID NOT make me a better person:

Breaking up.– We’re all pillars of dignity when it comes to most things, but a good ole fashioned dumping can always turn you into an insane person. Once when this guy and I broke up, I wrote him a song because he thought I had a beautiful voice. Although… he also thought I looked like Catherine Zeta Jones so I’m kinda left questioning the accuracy of his senses. So anyway in a bid to let him know I didn’t care, I wrote: The water underneath our bridge is a glass of no regret. I sent it to him. A few months later he told me he was engaged. I won’t go into details regarding my behaviour. Let’s just say Helen Mirren would not be pleased. And that glass of no regret? Tsunami.

Fashion choices. I’ve done the military look, the grunge look, the cowboy look, the rock chic look (enter leather pants) and blue eyeshadow. I’m not proud of who I sometimes dressed like (a moron), but I’m totally over that phase! What jumpsuit? I don’t know.

That kebab. Sure, this 24 hour take-away looks mildy dodgy and the lady serving looks like she just spent 30 minutes outside the chemist waiting for her prescription, but you’re hungry! However not all fast food is created equal and there’s a good chance your pancreas will say “To hell with it” and spurt it out your mouth, and you’ll spend the night in a sick sweat with visions of e-coli tomatoes dancing in your head.

High School. I listened to a lot of George Michael. I talked WAY too much in class, signed my name on tests as Cindy Trent D’arby and was usually late. However, I was a good girl. And reasonably fun. I wish I hadn’t spent so much time basing my personality on everybody else’s. I wish I hadn’t worn my fringe teased so high. I wish I hadn’t been so scared of people named Alyssa Green. I wish I had just said ‘MY SELF-ESTEEM WON’T BE DICTATED by how many boys like me, or the fact that I’m not rich and famous like Madonna.’

Not telling him. Of course I was nuts about him. Everyone knew it. Even after that Hey-This-Brief-Crazy-Fling-Was-Fun-While-It-Lasted ‘thing’ we did. I was pretending it was cool after we broke up. There were nights I stayed up listening to some crappy music, imagining us romping through fields together and hugging kittens on a cloud of rainbows. If I had that time again, I would let you know every time your laugh was the best thing I heard all day. How just being with you was awesome. You made me one cheesy piece of crap and you never knew.

Sun damage. I mean…. Solarium damage. Living through two Melbourne winters got me addicted. That bed was like cocaine to me. That brown bimbo at the counter was my dealer, and the accelerator cream she recommended was like lacing my crack with prescription drugs. Except instead of dying dubiously in my hotel room and getting a well publicised autopsy report that Entertainment Tonight filled a whole show with, I got freckles. And wrinkles. And this regret will probably be with me til I die, hopefully not from skin cancer. Presumably not from an overdose.

Treating your mum like a jerk. We all get into bad moods and take them out on people we love the most. But when we were sixteen a ‘curfew’ felt as though it was some Communist asshole imposition on us by the tyrants that are our parents. But my mother CONTORTED HER ORGANS to give me life and it was very painful. My mother is a very nice woman who doesn’t ever want bad things to happen to me, and tells me things for my own good. Yes I look like a tart in that skirt. And yes I should be careful. And yes, I should not put my elbows on the table like a caveman who suddenly had access to tables. She was right, she was right this whole time.

It’s interesting to note that Edith Piaf was addicted to opiate-based painkillers when she wrote “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien.” For the low-brow amongst you, that would be like Lady Gaga taking ecstacy before writing, “Just Dance.” Also when Britney Spears sang “Ooops I did it again” I don’t think she seemed very sincere, and I doubt she meant that ‘oops’ part at all. However I DO think she might now be sorry about all that red leather.

Look what I’m saying is that we all have regrets that fail to inspire self enlightenment – small and big. The eating an entire tub of Nutella kind – The paying money to see a Tom Cruise movie kind – The not serving Julia Roberts even if she’s dressed like a hooker kind… and then WOOPS!

Um… the kind where you have a car accident in someone else’s car because you were applying mascara while driving. And then… WOOPS! You accidentally have another car accident because you were taking off your stilettos while reversing because you could feel the heels getting damaged on the accelorator and brake pads. Actually he shouldn’t even have been parked there but whatever. Go ahead and make my regret a double.

And say what you want about learning curves and journeys, because not all mistakes lead to enrichment. Regret is human nature and if we actually had a dollar for every time we did something stupid – the biggest idiots would be the richest. And we’ve all seen what happens when iditos get rich. I’m looking at you Reality TV.

I’ve written about using Facebook in the past here but was asked by someone in Darwin to discuss ‘friend requests” and if you only accept people you really like. Which led me to my September 2011 column in DarwinLife Magazine

When a barman asks what you’d like, he means what DRINK you’d like. Trust me; it’ll save you an awkward conversation. Also, when a barista says “Sugar?” he means do you WANT some, not do you HAVE some. We all make mistakes. Life is tricky, and I nearly gave away my sugar.

So, what’s trickier than life? Facebook! A place where billions of people make mistakes, assumptions and comparisons every day, and some really do give away all their sugar. At first it seemed cool, maybe a bit addictive. But Facebook culture lends itself freely to voyeurism, judgement and oversharing.

Mark Zuckerberg created Facebook to pick up chicks because, horny males: the mother of all invention. But it’s changed. Now it’s something you can use to tell 300 friends you’re in labour. Or in love. Or in-capable of emotion. Or in London getting fresh with Prince Harry.

Pfft! Whatever! In your dreams. See? Tricky! Here are some more common Facebook mistakes.

Adding friends: Just because we once made out and it was hotter than Ryan Reynolds holding a bottle of absinthe and inviting me into a Jacuzzi full of Epsom salts, doesn’t mean I’m requesting your friendship so we can do it again. I only want to be your friend so I can stalk you when I can’t sleep. Or… What? Nothing! Also, if it takes me more than a day to accept your request, I’m probably not that interested… but might accept later on not to be a rude cow, incase you know someone I actually like and tell them – I’m a rude cow. Either way! It’s not called Like-book.

Rejecting friend requests: Obviously you did something creepy that I can’t look past. Or you support Collingwood. It doesn’t make me a bitch, or you a loser. Que será, mi amor. Well that’s what I told myself when Matt Damon rejected me. It’s not Popularity-book.

Deleting friends: ‘Cleaning your profile’ as a reason for deleting friends is essentially saying, you’re rubbish, bugger off. I’ve only ever deleted one person, and that scheming worthless hack knew she had it coming. I think deleting people is mean. It’s a person! Not some shoes you don’t want anymore. Fickle-book, maybe.

Comments: When your self-esteem is directly proportional to the number of ‘likes’ or comments you get, you know it’s time to converse in the real world. Insecure-book?

Profile picture: If you’ve had some professional photos taken and you use that for your profile – you wanker! Oh wait, I do that. Well at least it’s me, not my: car, pet, tattoo, cleavage, feet, a celebrity, or taken in 1997. It’s not Guess-who-book.

Groups: Be careful. You and your 5 members might offend someone; enough to sue for fifty grand. Joke? No. Ridiculous? Yes. Almost Defamation-book.

Games: I do not want to play Cityville, Castleville, Farmville, Annoyingville or something called Fruit Ninja Frenzy. I had one of those once and afterwards, I had the hiccups for days. However I think I could get into the game Howzat Cricket. I feel it’s the only sport that prioritises lunch.

Status updates: Life is NOT a dress rehearsal for your Facebook updates. Nobody wants to know what you’re doing every minute. Stop it! Keep your clean house, your headache, your dry cuticles, your cheese sandwich, your hangover, your new oven or what’s inside it to yourself. Also… Kids are cute and hilarious. But they’re yours not mine, so keep the sleeping/eating/pooping routine in the family. It’s not called Mother-book.

The truth is Facebook is a brilliant way to keep in touch with all kinds of people from our lives – past and present. It’s one of the best ways to vent, share ideas, gain support and actually – laugh at life. It’s a great way to share photos so I can see if after you dumped me and got married your kids turned out ugly, and it’s invaluable for making contact. However; if we’re Facebook friends, and you are gulity of any of the above – consider this your written warning. I may not delete you, but I’ll ‘hide’ you. Probably forever, and you’ll never know. Just ask Mark Zuckerberg; it’s not called Nice-book. Zuckers!

A Strange thing happened to me last month. I made appointments and kept them. I roasted a chicken. I wore eye-shadow, bought vitamins, and said words like “attenuate” and “malevolent.” I even exercised and read a whole non-fiction book, and I know it’s probably too early to tell without proper tests, but I think I might be coming down with a severe case of maturity.

Seriously – I’m like, one homemade organic muffin away from being Gwyneth Paltrow. I’d really appreciate it if someone could call a doctor or a barman as soon as possible. Unless… it’s permanent, which is unlikely. But also possible, since I’m nearly forty this month. Although I’m not sure what forty looks like anymore; or how it behaves.

Like, is it okay that I still laugh at farts? Because I bought this new anti-bloating yoghurt and was tootin’ like a toy train. And laughing. Because when is the sound of a kazoo not funny? Or a fart that sounds like it’s asking a slow question. I like those ones. Or less popular, those farts that sound like someone suddenly ripping through a large piece of corrugated cardboard. And the almost certain to be lethal farts, that sound like a German radio announcer waking up from a long nap.

Sorry, where was I? Oh, right! Maturity. So. Perhaps it’s time to cull some more activities. Like….

Party tricks: On a girl’s weekend recently, I was performing various dangerous activities to amuse the ladies. Like excessive overconsumption. And planking. And the ‘running man’ and ‘the worm’ and splits up the wall. Huh! Who knew? Oh. I also licked my plate.

Answering the phone with wassup biatch: It tells you everything you need to know about my crush on Zach Efron.

Biting my nails: Some days my nails are like snack food. I try manicures, I try creams, I try colour. But then I pick off the nail-polish like I’m Avril Lavigne getting rejected by Sk8tr Boi. My hands are so depressed! They probably talk about me whilst I sleep!

Squeezing pimples: My definition of gloom is going to pop a zit that has its own soul and emotions, and getting distracted by giant grey hairs. Or old-man nostril hairs. Shouldn’t all the grey hairs form an army of destruction and wipe out all the zits to become rulers of The Facial Pollutants? *sigh* I should probably just leave my face alone, and replace my toothbrush.

Getting scared: What if all the cheese died? Or chin hairs. Or geckos. Or what if I have a dumb kid. Or people can see where I scratch when I’m alone. Or Ludacris stops doing guest verses?

Incorrect pronunciation: Despite my love of words, there are some I can’t pronounce. Like ‘croissant.’ Apparently ‘cross-ont’ isn’t correct, and nobody understands me when I say ‘curvy piece of buttery wank.’ I should also learn the words to Khe Sanh, or stop belting it out every time it comes on.

I’ve just realised my list is endless. When am I going to: replace my toothbrush more often, SPF myself sit like a lady and not like a halfback that watches UFC, wear a white shirt without spilling my drink on it, stop crying at The Lion King, return phone calls, use eye cream, go to the dentist regularly, stop fantasizing about celebs.

Yeah, I should grow up, and write a will, and wear clothes that need ironing. And if this new found maturity IS here to stay, I’m really looking forward to finally showering correctly. Because according to advertising, when grown women wash their upper-bodies, they get orgasm face.

PREFACE: I wrote this for the mag last year – with a promise to repost in time for party-goers this year. I realise it’s too late for some, but for those of you celebrating tonight, consider this the desperate plea of someone who is not very fond of idiots at Christmas time and is moving states in 4 days and has taken precious time out from packing to tell you some important information.

I LOVE December. I love fruit-mince pies and chocolate-coated almonds. I love legitimate excuses to shop. I love decorating anything that doesn’t move. I love celebrating with family, and friends and I love that there are parties everywhere.

Parties. Hmmm.

For every aspect I love, there’s a down side. With all of December’s good time promises and parties, there are moments to embrace self restraint. Because when it comes to celebrating the silly season; just like relationships, credit cards, and tampons, there’s always strings attached.

The Christmas Party provides the perfect opportunity to lose your dignity. Or your wallet. Or your knickers. Let this be a Cyclone Cindy Warning to you all.

DRESSING: Just because it’s hot, doesn’t mean you should wear an outfit that covers less than a towel. Wearing lots of necklaces doesn’t make it a fancy towel. Wearing reindeer ears or a Santa hat doesn’t make it a cute towel. And those sexy shoes you love, the ones you are certain love you back just as much – will probably rip your foot skin off until it gets blistered, wet and red and you limp around like a deranged person. It will ruin your night, and possibly your ability to wear thongs for the entire wet season.

SWEARING: Even if; “How the f*** are ya?” is a common phrase around your workplace, the Christmas Party is not the time to impress your colleagues with the most ever swear words used in a sentence. Even if you are discussing your last power bill.

DRINKING: Firstly; the only people that really enjoy shooters are under-aged or still at uni. Remember the time you drank so much you projectile vomited your feelings and kidneys into the toilet while trying to read the poster on the back of the loo-door about safe sex, in order to pass time between wretches? Or when you peed in your pants and got lost? Or what about the time you got so smashed you vomited on the dance-floor then slipped in your own spew and landed with your skirt up over your head and your ass in the air? Try not to let this be the night you promise to give up drinking forever.

DANCING: Guys: when dancing, you may not be aware but you actually release a strong odour of cheap deodorant. Smelled from miles away, sometimes this musky gym scent attracts drunk women to your pelvic region, at which time they will rub their bottoms against it. This is not actually dancing. This is a precursor for making out. Making out in front of your boss is creepy. Especially if the girl is wearing a cute towel.

HOMEWARD BOUND: If you start sexting, taking photos with your tongue out, or telling the bouncer your sad life story, it’s time to go home. Go directly home. Do not collect $200 from the ATM and do not pass McDonalds.

Whatever December brings for you, remember that you can’t spell party without try, and you can’t spell season without ass. So try not to be an ass, and have a Merry Christmas!

I think we can all agree that sleep deprivation is more than feeling a little bit tired. Yes, yes, it’s a form of torture. As are many stages of ‘having a baby.’ I know that I would reveal top secret information and jeopardise national security if it meant avoiding having poo flicked one millimeter from inside my mouth.

Anyway I digress. Sleep deprivation can mess with your head because being that deliriously tired makes you just plain ole delirious. Unless you’re not sleeping because you’re on speed. That can still mess with your head but can apparently do wonders for your figure. Unlike what happens to me. I vaguely trudge into the kitchen, yawn, reach for the jar of Nutella and BOOM! Instant energy. Instant cottage cheese arse! But at night after you’ve brushed your teeth… Nutella? No. Energy? Gone. Phantasmagorically random thoughts? Yes indeed.

I wrote this particular waffle when I felt alone in my suffering. It could be a metaphor for something quite deep. Or it could just be that I was thinking how Eddie Murphy used to be hilarious when he did stand up and told some funny jokes like that one about the bear and the rabbit, and hang on a minute… Wasn’t that joke in his movie, ‘DELIRIOUS?’

Maybe he wrote that joke when he was feeling delirious, because maybe when you’re feeling delirious your brain releases stored images and memories of bears and rabbits. Like when you vomit – how your body releases years’ worth of stored carrot.

Ok. I’ll stop now.

See?

PREFACE: A rabbit seeks out a bear in the woods.

RABBIT: Hey bear!

BEAR: What’s up, rabbit!

RABBIT: Do you like honey? You like honey right? Yes or no?

BEAR: How about stopping it with the stupid questions!

RABBIT: ANSWER ME

BEAR: Dude, yes. Duh. Of course.

RABBIT: Well… I just so happen to have a big thing of honey right over there.

I fancy myself a reasonably smart girl. I did well at uni, read online newspapers, can make a witty quip when necessary, and know how to pronounce foie gras correctly. But none of this means anything without a decent pair of tits. Everyone, (especially Beyonce) knows that if you are female and want to rule the world you must first; always wear only your underpants and second; you must possess ample cleavage.

Most women have a strange relationship with their boobs, monitoring them and their behavior closely. I remember watching with confusion and amazement as my breasts grew in that weird pointy way at thirteen. My lumps were a novelty and I had no idea of their potential or ability.

Then I breastfed two babies. They stopped being lady lumps and became two gargantuan bazoinkas with nips of steel. But then… they left. No goodbye. Not even that fake, “hey well I guess we’ll be seeing each other around.” They just buggered off leaving two sad little over-fried eggs. Alas, my fun bags are no longer fun.

The problem is – I have ACTUAL non-silicony breasts. I couldn’t go to ‘Bass in the Grass’ because I don’t have perky little breasts that look good in a boob tube. Instead, I have breasts that happen if National Geographic was like, a totally hot magazine.

And I’m terrified that before long they’ll be flopping around like cocker-spaniel ears. Or wake up one morning with breast knees. So when my husband said if I wanted to get a boob job, he’s ok with that, only if I want, because I’ve been lamenting my lack of lady lumps? Hmmm, the conundrum. Only if I want!

I don’t know… but MANY others do! No longer reserved for strippers and bikini models; breast enhancement is now mainstream, and not only for those with tea-bag titties. Young women with cute little apple pie breasts who’ve barely reached puberty are also getting the ‘job.’

I know. I see them. Because like any expensive purchase you make, you want to show them off. “Look what I bought,” you tell the world sticking your nipples to the wind. “Check out these puppies,” you mention in passing as they high-five your collarbone. Or my favourite: “Oooh, shots! Look dad, no hands!”

Most women consider breast implants the way men consider steroids. Some demonise them out-right. The rest are hesitant to judge because in the back of their mind they think maybe… someday, they’ll do it too! You know, not to be huge. Just to feel better.

Sure, I could get a new set. But sometime around 2038 when we’re at an age where it’s no longer realistic to have such a pert and colossal bosom, maybe those who DID get it done will eye my breasts with wonder and remark at the way they fall. So casually, so gracefully…

NOTE: Just because since the birth of my second baby my blog posts have been very infrequent, doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing stuff. I have. It’s just a little kooky. But that’s what happens when you have sleep deprivation. Your brain starts melting in it’s own skull, kept alive only by a crying baby that needs you, and random fantasies. The following is one such selection of fiction. I wasn’t under the influence of anything other than 1am, then 3.30am, then 5am wake-up calls.

Today I woke up, opened the windows, and shivered for about three seconds. Then I remembered that the dry season has arrived. Cool. I put on some jeans, vomited out sunshine rays, and went on with the knowledge that life in Darwin was about to get very entertaining. If you’re not sure what you should be doing in the dry – I’m here to tell you.

Grab your friends and do outside stuff on the grass: Frankly, I want to be outside when it’s 6pm and there is a drink in my hand and tapas on a plate in front of me. When I’m sitting on the ground, it feels like there are ants crawling up my butthole. And no! I don’t want to go on a picnic. Making food is one thing. Asking me to carry it, along with my own plates and chairs is just rude. I can eat a perfectly good salad in a restaurant and not when midgies are going to eat me alive.

Go to Fannie Bay to see the whoreses on track: For some females, the Darwin racing carnival is like a contagious virus known as Territory Scrubber. The symptoms are feathers, vadge grazers, and poorly applied fake tan. Whoreses also carry bottles of booze around in their hand like it’s an accessory.

Rediscover you hair straightener: I tried to straighten my hair back in December because my hair is a suspected terrorist so I torture it by rubbing it with hot irons. Ages later, my hair was socially acceptable so I went outside. The second I closed my front door, the humid air bitch slapped me across the face, gave me a wedgie and stole all my lunch money. My ends curled up and the hair around my face frizzed out like I had my finger in a socket. My hair is a stupid idiot in the wet, but the dry makes all that straightening worthwhile.

Barbecues: Eat meat until you throw up.

Mindil Beach Markets: Forget personal space. This is a fantastic spot to visit if you’re in the mood for a grope. I can’t count the number of times my boobs have walked into someone. Go right ahead and pinch that backpacker’s arse. They’ll turn around to see whodunit and get lost in a fragrant sea of meat smoke, BO and sunset.

Turn off your air conditioner: Enjoy your power bill going down by $3000.

Finally, if you find yourself wondering if Al Qaeda has retaliated by dropping a mini Bogan-bomb on Darwin… No. This will be the sign that the V8’s are in town. Actually I love the V8’s because there’s always a slight chance that I might go deaf from the sound of the revving motors, and I’m like Indiana Jones; living on the edge of danger. While you’re there, deep throat an icy pole by accident, because there can only be one ‘Stig’ but anyone can be inappropriate.

Ahh yes, Darwin in the dry. Thank you. Because like reality cooking shows, Bangkok’s nightlife and the Kardashian sisters, I rely on you for extreme entertainment and there’s honestly nowhere I’d rather be.

I’ve been crap, haven’t I! Inconsistent blogging with months between them. I know. I’m a bad blogger. If I was a dog you’d be rubbing my nose into my computer screen. So anyway I’m sorry.

Well, as sorry as a self-indulgent mother of 2 in serious need of sleep and a facial with a broken washing machine and broken spirit, and a surprisingly well-in-tact superiority complex can be, anyway.

Not sure that anybody really cares that much. It’s not like my blogging saves lives or helps anyone, other than people who have insomnia.

You know, you random strangers out there that are so bored and wanting to be entertained because despite like a hundred new free TV channels there’s still crap on TV, so you’ll google “nice stylish boys lonely feeling sad” or “hairy condom sex” or ”Jennifer Lopez butt” or “Ryan Reynolds testicle tuck” and sadly somehow (I’m not kidding) you’ll see a link leading you to this site and go: Oh, this should amuse me for about three and a half minutes….

To those of you – I’m especially sorry. Oh and ahhh…. Also to all the celebrities who google their own name and see my 2 cents. Sorry to you too. Not for my 2 cents. But because I have soooo much more to give and I haven’t been. And for THAT I’m sorry to myself.

The kind of sorry that could apologise to an entire generation if it wanted to. Just by getting a bunch of people on a hill somewhere in Canberra and saying – I’m sorry, really slowly into a microphone and then printing it on a T-shirt and in the sky with a plane and that.

The kind of sorry that could round-house kick karate chop your arse, if it could be bothered getting off the couch… what leotard? I don’t know.

But anyway, my sorry would be wearing a sweat band Rambo style. And a red leotard with Swarovski crystals stitched into the bodice. And Christian Louboutin Mouskito Pumps in Black and Red. Because my sorry is AWESOME.

Anyway the consistent folk over at DarwinLife Magazine have this thing called a monthly deadline. So despite my absence here, I will be updating soon with Cyclone columns that appeared in June and July issues.

This isn’t about the time I kissed a girl. Or jelly wrestling. Or Ellen DeGeneres. Although… this is about girls I could ‘love or leave.’ I used to hate girls. All my mates were boys and I use the term mate loosely because I suspect half of them wanted to see my knickers. I’d say, “Oh, I just find I get along better with guys.”

I soon realised that if I didn’t have at least 3 really good girlfriends I would wither away and die. I have them now, and flourish from knowing them. Love them! Seeing them is like returning to the womb and I can’t imagine my life without them.

Yes I love lots of girls, but not ALL girls. Certaingirls.

‘Girls night’ Girl: She’ll watch romantic comedies with you so you can stare at Cameron Diaz and feel indisputable amounts of jealousy. You both get teary eyed at the end of Love Actually; where Colin Firth is all ‘I learned a different language for you.’ It kills me every time but she doesn’t tell anyone. She just passes the tissues and breaks you off another row of chocolate. Later in the evening when you’re high on sugar and you have the soundtrack of your teenage years cranking, she’ll jump up in her PJ’s and do the running man to The Backstreet Boys, just to amuse you – even if she’s not wearing a bra.

‘Never diet’ Girl: She suggests you share a plate of nachos with extra sour cream, then some spring rolls and maybe a barrel of pork belly. Later, we’ll take a shower in chocolate ganache and that will be fantastic as well. Don’t even think about ordering salad. She’ll fry the lettuce and cover it with cheese sauce when you go to the loos.

‘Go-to’ Girl: The woman gives fantastic advice and is always ready with an update on that trailer-park skank that made life hell at your last job. You can call her at 3am when you’re crying out your right lung. She’ll listen, tell you you’re being ridiculous, make you laugh, but still totally get your tears. She’ll also use more than 3 words to honestly describe how your butt looks in those jeans.

‘Secret Nerd’ Girl: She’s the epitome of Geek Chic. She watches Discovery Channel and abstract comedy, has Enya on her iPod, idolises Tina Fey and can name every Member of Parliament. She loves books. No. Literature! But she’ll happily discuss with you red carpet fashion disasters and the evolution of Brad Pitt’s face.

I risk sounding like Ginger Spice here, or just like a 9 year old, but girls rule! Meanwhile, there are certainly some girls I could leave, thanks.

‘Girl hater’ Girl: She’ll give you bitchy sideways glances in her chandelier earrings and ‘temptress pink’ lipstick. She tells vicious lies about other girls to her ‘mates’ to make herself seem like a goddess and she walks like she has sex fire under her feet.

‘Messy drunk’ Girl: She’ll drop perfectly good kebab in her lap, attract some random guy she can blast juices with in public view, then crowd the toilets vomiting up body glitter and her face. At the end of the night you’ll see her, and her underpants, sitting on the curb contracting a bad case of crotch worms asking you for a cigarette.

‘Drama’ Girl: She’s the girl wearing unnecessary ruffles. Everyone has done her wrong. Including her push-up bra. If she’s not texting her ex, she’s ‘not speaking’ to you. Thank goodness. She probably touches herself to Edward from Twilight.